retrograde

by the time I get home
to write this, I probably
won't want to.

The necessity in sustaining
some assemblance of momentum
in creativity, or sanity;
for the next eight hours
in order to earn the tokens
necessary to pay debtors' tax
on the property that
I will rot in, is what prompts;
what is nothing less than a cry
for help, to myself, to be answer
ed later.

Later in the tomb that moonlights as home,
housing my loved ones, my dog, my running water,
my few woven threads, I have a neat rock or two,
a couple fairly decent drawings hanging by the last
will of tacks too lazy to let them fall. I have a wee
bit of ganja, maybe 8 to 10 beers, a chair that has my
ass's best intentions in mind. Later when I write this
in the comfort of my home, after getting there an hour
late, due to rain and the transportation authority's tardi
ness, and somehow I scrape these wet, soggy, burdensome
leathers off the swamp creatures of my feet,

later, when I am there, I hope I remembered something
worth writing. Something snuck in this stinking kitchen;
that though I have only been in this particular one for only
three weeks, I have been in one just like it a million times.
I am one of the two white boys. The other always has lots of
tattoo's, is good to grab a few pints with, and never has nearly
the amount of stories that I have. A few of my shittier tales
I usually have in common with a few of the black dudes, that
for better or worse have certainly been the majority in many
of most recent occupations. My grillman has clearly learned some
of my lessons, for far longer, by being state sponsored. He is a
very tense quiet, has the garb, beard, and demeanor of many of
the Philly Muslims, that are a hood hybrid of hoodlum and devotee.
He is cool enough, tells me today that he "seen a whole subway
car full of faggots, young kids, just struttin like it was nuthin"
older Puerto Rican fella to his left agrees with the resentment of
the sentiment, and then the Grillman tells us, that they are the
descendants of the escapees of Sodom and Gomorrah.
Makes enough sense to most. I smile crooked a bit.

Bossman, is the other other white boy, but he is hardly
in the back of the house enough to count as little more than
the magician behind the cash, every other week. He recently
had a bit of a "tongue in cheek", interrupted by me, who recog
nized when he name-dropped "Metatron", and slightly misused it.
I helped him correct himself. He can't make sense of why I would
know Jewish mysticism, I think it cute that he thinks its
strictly Jewish, but tell him I play video games. It's a lie
I haven't played video games in nearly twenty years.

The girls, who venture back and forth throughout the night
are all the expected pretty. I have suspicions that are probably
not justified in their severity, towards any expected beauty. I
am not rude, but by no means do I over exert myself like it seems
is necessity in their minds eyes' for fellas to do. On cue my first
impressions are a round of rolled eyes, with the common thought
being, "who does this fucking dude think he is?". I have grown
used to this response, and to be honest am probably more fond
of it than I should be. My silliest ego self chuckles, thinking,
that these impressions sing best, when one of 'em wants to fuck
me. I check myself, get a grip. Stroll outside, to smoke a square.

I have six and a half hours to kill.